


Reflections on a Four-Poster Bed

by S_Faith



Series: On a Four-Poster Bed [1]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-10
Updated: 2008-10-10
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: A missing couple of pages from the end of the last full entry in Bridget's first-year diary…Book universe.





	Reflections on a Four-Poster Bed

**Author's Note:**

> I always wondered _exactly what happened_ in that suite to make Bridget say 'whenever I see a diamond-patterned V-neck sweater in future, I am going to spontaneously combust with shame'. I mean, she doesn't strike me as the type that'd be easily embarrassed in this way. And so… this was born.
> 
> Disclaimer: _SOOOOO_ not mine.

**_Monday, 25 December_ **

_No. of bottles of champagne consumed: at least 3 (but was not drinking alone, so is all right). No. of cigarettes: 0 (distracted from craving by sex). No. of gorgeous human rights barristers shagged within inch of life: 1 (hurrah!)._

_10:45 pm. V. posh suite, Hintelsham Hall._

"Right, Bridget Jones, I'm going to give you pardon for."

It's not the most seductive thing a man could say, certainly not the sort of thing that would usually make a girl's knees go weak, but it was the way he was looking at me, the way he'd taken the champagne glass from my hand, the way he bloody _kissed_ me then the tone of his voice as he spoke to me… was complete putty in his hands when he picked me up, swooping me up under my knees, to carry me off to the bedroom of the suite. Maybe he was afraid would fall over if tried to walk. Maybe would have.

He set me down at the foot of the bed but could still feel his hands tight on my waist as he sat next to me, even after he stopped kissing me, just looking over at me with a crooked little smile. It almost seemed like now that he had hold of me, he was afraid to let go, like maybe would bolt like terrified puppy.

It was quite sweet, really. _He_ was quite sweet, all tentativeness and shyness as he moved his hands up to the bottom of my jumper, hesitant to pull it up, like might shout at him for trying to get my shirt off. Durr. Did he think I thought we were in here for a post-brunch lie down?

Realised pretty quickly that if left up to him, if waited for him to drum up the courage to take off my shirt, we might be here all day, which didn't bode well for more, shall we say, _involved_ activities suddenly found self quite anxious to get on to. Think scared him a bit, though, when reached down, grabbed my hem, and tore off my own jumper.

Immediately wished had worn a sexier, lacier bra or something, but his seeing even this sad bit of satin seemed to kind of kick-start something in his brain, because he reached forward, slipped his hands along skin just under the bottom edge of my bra and pulled me flush against him, fingers hard in my back. As he did this, he roughly kissed me again, nipping my lower lip a bit in the process in his haste, and then we fell back—rather, he _pushed_ me back—against the mattress, hands running all over my stomach (didn't seem to care about squashiness, hurrah!), over the satin bra cups.

Wish had thought to unfasten undesirable bra first before frenzy of mad snogging. Turned out he was a very clever man, when it came to my rather pesky article of clothing; spun me over and with an expertise that rather surprised me, had that clasp open in a flash—reminding self never to judge book by cover. 

Wish too had thought to ask him to take off own jumper, which was woollen and quite scratchy. However, found did not care nearly enough as normally would have, as Mark Darcy turned out to be quite talented in the kissing department. Then felt his hands on my arse, over the curve, down to the crease, then to the seam between my legs. No beating 'round the bush there. Think must have gasped, if for nothing else at indignity of presence of trousers, which seemed at once terribly inconvenient, both pairs, as well as two pairs of equally inconvenient accompanying smalls.

Broke from kiss, gulping for air, only to feel him assail my throat and neck with similar attentions as he turned me again so that was under him, bloody enormous bed. "Bridget," he growled in my ear, in the sort of tone that almost sounded like a request for permission.

"Mark," I gasped back, answering in a tone that gave it to him.

Lifted himself away at that moment, grabbed the bra by the juncture where the little pink flower sat, and tore it off of me, tossing it aside, then gazed down at me in what hoped was appreciation. 

Hopes were proven true when he simultaneously ran his hand over my breast and dove down to kiss me between said breasts. Oh God. Cared even less about scratchy jumper. Except, of course, in that wanted v. much to see Mark Darcy's bare chest. Felt him tugging down my trousers and had brief moment of pants panic, until remembered a.) was Mark Darcy, and b.) he was obviously otherwise occupied.

Blatantly obvious, as then felt teeth grazing my nipple.

Made a little sound and was going to tell him to strip off, already, but suddenly felt his fingers pushing quite deliberately between my legs. Words left my mouth instead as a groan.

Then felt hot breath on my ear. Immediately started pulling insanely at his woollen jumper. Wanted him to take it the fuck off; not sure if said it or just thought it, but he stopped what he was doing, as if he either heard me, or noticed suddenly the inequity of the clothing situation. He then clumsily tore his jumper off, wriggling and fumbling with his trouser fastener. Could hear the whoosh of the zip, could feel him try to shimmy his trousers off and then…

Could feel skin against mine, felt hands rise of own accord to touch him. Heard him gasp then dive on me one more time, sinking me with that kiss again, hands seemingly everywhere at once, moulding me into a very responsive puddle of goo. Figured could look at bare chest later. Not nearly as important as tongue teasing nipples, hands parting thighs, fingers driving into me to give me a taste of what was to come.

Suddenly wanted that v. v. badly.

Especially couldn't wait to see naked form of Mark Darcy after running self's fingers down over manly backside, firm and taut, contours all in the right places; fingernails on his skin seemed to trigger yet another level of animalism, his hips bucking forward futilely, and he made a pained little sound, gasping my name.

Wondered what was waiting for when realised this was Mark Darcy, and had to fight chuckle even as was grateful for his foresight and care. Got through nasty condom bureaucracy in record time and was over me once more, pressing my legs to the sides again as he hovered and moved into place, finding his way with probing fingers. Finally, with a great stammering breath, felt him thrust forward and into me and oh my _God_.

Think must have cried out, moaned, called for God or Jesus or something (v. bad mental image in retrospect) in time with each drive forward. He chorused in counterpoint to me as he buried his face into my neck, biting the skin gently. All nerve endings were on bloody fire, I _swear_.

Don't know if was all of those months of pent-up sexual frustration, the two of us dancing around each other like prize fighters or what, but after v. little time (and concentrated effort on his part), came in glorious explosion of colours and sparkles behind eyes. Neighbouring suites were, I'm sure, tittering like twelve-year-olds listening to obvious sounds of shagging… or perhaps they thought self was being murdered. Could not quiet self, though.

Could also hear, feel, sense the building climax in barrister-lately-revealed-as-exotic-jungle-cat-in-bed. Moved in time with him—which, frankly, was sending me quite easily towards seconds—and explored those contours once more in effort to help things along (as did not want to leave him in dust). Felt him trembling, felt him tensing, then with a low, guttural almost-snarl, felt moment when Mark Darcy reached quite a staggering and impressive peak.

In a swift moment his arms came out from under him and he landed on his side, pulling me over with him and clinging to me in a rather wonderful fashion. Heard him trying to speak, but he sounded like he had just spent a week in the desert with no water, his voice raw and scratchy. Got gist of what he wanted to say, though, by way of ravenous kisses to mouth, chin and neck.

Hate to admit it now, but made rather embarrassing girly giggling sounds. A lot of them, actually. Ran hands over lovely masculine sweat-sheened skin, tracing fingernails lightly over hollow along spine, grazing teeth over throat. Was just such a blissful, perfect moment, could not help self from doing so, and as did so, heard him say "Bridget" in rather a dangerous tone, rolling yet again so that I was resting on top of him.

"What?" I said, still breathing hard.

"Unless you want to be pinned down to this bed all bloody day…" he began, or at least that's what his little half-grunts sounded like.

Embarrassing girly giggle again. "Never thought a man who willingly wore a diamond-patterned jumper could—"

Don't remember the rest of what intended to say, actually, because he interrupted me with an almost feral-sounding, "I'll show you diamond-patterned."

Rolled me again so that I was beneath him, then pushed himself up, securing my hands down with his own, and began to kiss me again, resting heavily upon me in a v. enjoyable way. Instead of starting in on the shagging again, though, he pushed away completely, which would have really confused me if not for the path his mouth and tongue had begun to take: lips to throat to breast to stomach to navel to—

… _oh_.

Earlier sounds were positively mute compared to the ones elicited from self now; had begun calling upon all manner of Christian saints and angels as he made delightful diamond-patterns with velvety tongue against my most receptive lower self. Felt his hands firmly grasping my arse, pulling me up as he went down, and thought might just explode into teeny, tiny bits. In fact, indisputably _did_ explode into teeny, tiny bits. Repeatedly.

Note to self, once again: Book. Cover. Never, _ever_ judge.

Next thing, remember seeing Cheshire-cat-like Mark Darcy resting beside me, gathering those scattered bits back together and holding them v. close to him. Found self wishing had known what was under that bloody diamond-patterned V-neck jumper months ago… especially after _that_.

"Mmm," he murmured close into my ear. He must have been exhausted, what with all that effort. Agreed with assessment via v. long sigh. Vaguely recall looking 'round self and saw we were sort of diagonal on bed, pillows off to side, and duvet very uselessly beneath us.

Must have chuckled or something, because he asked what was funny, so told him. He chuckled too, then grabbed corner of duvet from each side of us and enfolded us like it was a giant flatbread. Was lovely, all warm and snug, in arms of v. v. g. man indeed.

Might have fallen asleep with all little tender kisses being pressed into hair and soft strokes on skin, except was suddenly on back once more, rolled up in the duvet; Mark Darcy was assaulting me with kisses anew (not that is complaint), hand travelling over and lingering on breast (really seemed to like them, double hurrah!); felt fingers dipping between slightly sore thighs again. 

Not that is complaint, either. Was as if jungle cat had suddenly been let loose to be wild self again after years of being in cage. Had rather forgotten how exhilarating it is to be ravished in such a way. V. much recommended. Daniel might have had innate proficiency in hitting all the right notes, but Mark's near-reverent tenderness—he did, after all, say he _loved_ me—brought it to a new level altogether. His enthusiasm was endearing, too, and enjoyment was by no means one-sided, even though started to feel a little guilty for making him do all the work.

It was at a crucial moment, poised to strike, as it were, when he muttered a curse under his breath, pushing his knee up under him, pulling away. Realised must have look stricken at which he actually smiled then reached for the little pile of packets on the nightstand.

Resolved to get back on Pill at earliest possible opportunity.

Was quick on the draw and back in position, but rather than driving abruptly forward as if he hadn't stopped to suit up, he started kissing me once more, long and languorous, caressing my skin, making me achingly desperate for resolution. 

Then _ohhh_ , thrusting forward again with equal strength and energy, the little groans and grunts that he made; loved making the slightest of movements beneath him and listening for the change in breathing, feeling the change in cadence, until we each came again, me arching my head back and crying out, he growling low in his throat. When finished, this time he kind of ended up resting on me, deliciously solid and heaving for air.

Mmm. 

I pushed his shoulder and this time I rolled him over, stretching myself across him, finally getting a good look at that chest, which was v. nice indeed; flat and muscled (but not overly so) and the finest mat of hair, which I ran my fingers over playfully.

"What are you smiling at?" he murmured, looking at me through his lashes in a v. seductive way.

"Am I smiling?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm."

Simply rested head on chest, made non-committal sound and tightened embrace around him, just as his arm came 'round my waist, holding me close.

The afternoon was certainly off to an excellent start, and the rest of the day was just as—GAH!

_11:15 pm._

Just as was finishing up above, Mark Darcy admonished me in stern, authoritative, barrister-like tone for writing in diary and not, and I quote, remaining in bed to be at beck and call of whim of lust. Am amazed at newly-revealed saucy, sexy nature. Like it v. much indeed.

_The end._


End file.
